


Depression and denial

by Xaveroo



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Withdrawal, Eating Disorders, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-15 10:26:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3443729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xaveroo/pseuds/Xaveroo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Empty bottles; empty wallet; empty fridge; bloody glass and an unlikely ally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A mess

**Author's Note:**

> This is super depressing so I apologise in advance.  
> Trigger warnings for melt down, self-harm and symptoms of alcohol withdrawal.

It’s just a stupid game of cards, it’s just a few quid but he needs it.  
If he hadn’t had to catch the damn bus to hand in that overdue assignment he wouldn’t have this problem, wouldn’t need to gamble his last few pounds.  
He’s so close to winning, so close, head to head with some other anonymous person ‘GoFish313’, he’s almost there and then it happens.  
His blood rushes through him churning his growling stomach into knots, he throws the mouse across the room with such force he can hear the cracking of cheap plastic above the thudding inside his head, a small part of him thanks the universe it was wireless.  
He doesn’t stop there though he tries, clawing his bitten fingers into his curls and gripping and pulling and screaming as he falls first onto his knees and when that doesn’t seem to help he throws his whole body down.  
The floorboards beneath him creak and shudder and the walls thud a hollow noise, the light swings as feet stamp above his head, like the whole world is screaming at him and not the other way around.  
By the time he’s stopped screaming and shouting he’s light headed a lump already forming on his forehead, when he kneels and rips his shaking hands from his inky hair, clumps come with it.  
He tries to pick it off but he trembles too much and it knots and sticks to his damp clammy hands, he needs a drink, he just needs a fucking drink.   
Maybe he could just see Parnasse once more, then again he’s probably found someone better, someone just as sad and desperate and he promised them he wouldn’t.  
He rubs his sweaty hands on his grubby worn jeans and eventually the hairs come away, still he’s agitated and doesn’t know what to do.  
Call, they said to call, but they didn’t mean it, why would they care, what could they do? Maybe they do care, maybe they sort of see him as part of the group but just because it makes them look good, nobody really cares.  
He doesn’t have parents or family or friends to call, AA suck, Samaritans suck, they won’t listen, they’ll call an ambulance, they won’t help, they can’t help.  
He could crawl the bars and chat up some strangers, but there’s only two gay friendly bars in town and people he knows are bound to be at both, they’d tell Enjolras, Enjolras would look at him like filth, his face scolding and cold eyes burning into him, but he’d notice him.  
No, the others on their pub crawl would stop him before he got his drink though, they’d stop him from going to meetings and he’d never see Enjolras again.  
Enjolras is coming here, he’s coming here tomorrow, I just have to make it till tomorrow, I just need to hold on until tomorrow night, then Enjolras will come to collect his posters, I could invite him in and Enjolras will complain about my mess and my instant coffee.  
He shakes his head viscously as if he can shake out the clouds and bees which make his thoughts so confusing and his head so heavy.  
I just need a drink, I just need to get a drink and then I can think, wash away the clouds, drown the bees, see the light, see Apollo again.  
Hiding places, all been checked, double checked, triple checked, he checks each again, last final hope he’s scraping back the wardrobe and yanking up the floor boards it reveals nothing but pipes and dust.  
He sobs and wipes at his face, it’s soaking, he must have been crying this whole time, snotty and red and disgusting, worthless and fat, a filthy drunk.  
Failing college, college he should have left behind years ago, no family and no friends because he’s not worth anything he’s worthless and pathetic and sick and ugly and this is why nobody wants him, this is why he deserves nobody and nothing.  
He wants to end his pointless existence, he thinks about it, he plans, he fantasizes about it and he’s not afraid, not until he feels the coldness of death washing over him and his body convulses with shock and spewing poison, every time he wakes in a hospital bed, so pathetic he can’t even rid the world of himself.  
All that keeps him going is that angel, just having that god like man acknowledge him, even if it’s to be defensive when Grantaire shoots holes in his ideas, even when he shouts and pounds his fists on table as he pierces Grantaire with his intense blue eyes.  
Just an hour of staring into the sun and the sun staring back at him, that’s all he needs to keep going for another week and there must be a way to keep it, he needs his Enjolras fix as much as he needs his poison fix.  
He acts on impulse gripping the pipes tightly and holding his breath, the searing pain never comes the pipes are cold, the heating must be broken again.  
He shouts standing and tries to wrestle the heavy wardrobe back against the wall only it gets stuck on the slats he’d not put back, another almost animalistic scream erupts from him as he shoves the wardrobe so hard it slams back against the wall leaving a dent and then comes crashing forward.  
He stumbles back narrowly avoiding being crushed and knocking over his bedside table as he does so, the lamp and jar of water both fall.   
The bulb smashes and the escaping water creates sparks that travel in a line and blow the socket, there is a muffled clunk and the lights turn off, he can just about make out the room from the orange glow on street lamps and the slowly rising moon, it’s dusk.  
He pulls out his battered phone to use as a torch, it’s on 9% battery, great, awesome, his heart sinks with realisation, he runs to his bedroom door silently praying to a god he doesn’t believe in, it’s no use, the computer is off and that means his assignment is gone too.  
He throws himself down on his bed half expecting that to snap in half, the state of the room, he feels like a bull in a china shop, breaking everything he touches, he may as well break himself too.  
He pushes up his sleeve, reaches down to take a wafer thin glinting curve of glass and slides it up his arm, finally some relief from the rage and confusion.  
It’s almost as good as his art scalpels, a little rougher, not as deep and neat, it scratches and snags on his skin and he hisses through his teeth, jabbing it in until the snaps between his fingers.  
He’s about to grab another piece when he jumps at the loud banging at his door, the neighbours complaining about the noise maybe, maybe they’ll finish the breaking for him.  
He sighs, pulling down the baggy sleeve of his green hoodie and makes his way to the door a little more of his dancer grace returned with his calm, he peaks through the spy hole, jumping as the angry stout man the other side bangs again louder this time.  
“POLICE, OPEN UP!”  
He panics, looking around widely and then remembers this whole mess was caused by him having no poison to calm his nerves, he has nothing in the flat, not even his own prescriptions.  
He puts on the chain, runs his fingers through his hair in a pointless attempt to look presentable and opens the door slowly, heart pounding illogically.

“Officer Javert, we’ve had reports of noise disturbance and possible domestic violence, may I come in.” he introduces himself, flashing his ID.  
“Uh…”  
“Are you alone?” he asks, the dim lighting makes it difficult to work out exactly who he’s talking to, man, child, all he can see is a short slim person in baggy clothes and large bug blue eyes staring at him.  
“Yes.”  
“Can I ask your name and how old you are?”  
“I’m sorry about the noise, I uh, I just. I’ll be quiet now okay?” trembles the young man as the florescent landing light flickers on again.  
He takes in the dark circles surrounding wide eyes, the drawn cheeks, the trembling hand and the dishevelled hair, his mind starts evaluating possibilities because something is going on.  
“Could you tell me the nature off the disturbance?” he asks stalling as he scribbles on his pad ‘blink once for no and twice for yes, understand?’  
“I was just, everything’s fine officer, I’m really sorry.” The man answers in a rough nasally voice as he shows him the pad.  
The man blinks twice, looking confused.  
‘Have you been attacked?’ he writes “Please answer the question, sir.”  
He scans the paper and blinks, Javert waits for the second but it doesn’t come.  
“Could you let me in?”  
“Why?”  
“I’m not going to arrest you unless I have reason to.”  
“It’s a mess.” He garbles.  
“I don’t arrest people for mess. I’m a police officer, not your mother.”  
“I don’t have a mother.” The still wide eyed man replies.  
He swallows hard “Neither do I, I guess that’s something we have in common. I just want to check the situation, if you could let me in, sir.” He tries to sound soft and reassuring though he expects it comes out just as cold and harsh as always.  
The door closes, there’s a slow sliding scrap of the chain being taken off and then very slowly the door creaks open revealing an almost dark room, empty bottles, half-finished paintings and torn up or crumpled sketches littering the floor.  
He steps inside reaching for the light switch.  
“There’s no light.” Comes a quiet voice.  
He tries it anyway and sure enough nothing happens.  
“I knocked over a jar.” The man says as if that explains everything.  
“And?” he prompts impatiently.  
“It had water in it and it fell and so did my lamp and, there was, there was sparks and then everything just-“ he sighs burying his face in his hands.  
“You blew a fuse?”  
His dark mop of curls bounces and Javert guesses he’s nodding “Right, get your key.”  
“What?” he asks, dropping his hands and hugging himself instead.  
“Get your keys so you can lock your door while we go to the fuse box.”  
“Oh. Done.” He pats what is most likely a jean pocket, though it’s hard to tell while he’s wearing a hoodie so big the sleeves cover his hands and it almost reaches his knees.  
“Come on then.”


	2. Less of a mess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire doesn't want to be saved, or so he says.  
> Javert has a big heart hidden inside his barrel chest, under his heavy greying eyebrows.  
> Someone special comes to join the party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again warning for slightly depressing content; mentions of self-harm and mental instability.

Grantaire isn’t entirely sure what’s going on, but he doesn’t care too much either, he’s compliant locking the door though he has nothing worth stealing and follows the officer down all six urine and puke reeking floors until they reach the fuse box.  
The late middle aged greying man flicks a switch “There all fixed.” He nods and his mouth does some strange twitch like he’s trying to smile, he tries to smile back.  
They trapes all their way back up the stairs, he gets slower and slower and feels a large hand and firm grip holding him up as he stumbles   
The hand stays in place right until he back in his lit flat and lowered onto the sofa “Stay there.” He obeys the steady voice.  
He stares into space, trying to make sense of what’s going on.  
There is an irritated grunt from the kitchen along with the clinking of cups and suddenly he’s reminded of his childhood, how like his father he’d become.  
“Ssshh. Here, drink.” That firm steadying hand is back in place again only this time it’s stopping his rocking motion and there is a mug in his hand.  
He doesn’t have any mugs, everything’s dirty, he’s been using jars for a week, maybe longer, he doesn’t really know.  
“Drink.” Says the unyielding gruff voice, so he does, sipping the sugary black coffee, after a few minutes he notices the trembling in his hands isn’t so bad.  
He places the empty cup on a stack of books and looks back to the kitchen, the draining board is full of clean mugs and dishes “Why are you doing this?” he asks frowning.  
“Thought I’d give you some space and make myself useful. I’d like to check you over now.” It’s not a question though he could refuse if he wanted to, he doesn’t, he sits there and lets the man take his obs and check him over.  
“You’ve got a lump on your head, how did you do that?”  
“I smacked my head against the floor.” He answers truthfully because this guy probably knows he’s nuts already, why else would he still be here.  
“I see.” The man sits beside him, his solid barrel body making the sofa arch “You have no food or I’d have made you some.”  
He laughs “You already did my washing up, what do you want?” he asks, masking his concern with humour.  
“I don’t want anything, kid.” Says the man frowning “My job is to keep people safe, and you’re in some kind of trouble.”  
“I’m fine.” He auto pilots.  
“You may have a concussion. Do you have someone you can call, someone to keep an eye on you?”  
“I’m fine.”  
“How do you feel about hospi-“  
“No!” he barks.  
“Okay, I can give you some helpful websites, some numbers to call, but I expect you know all this. I’ll leave them anyway.”  
“I don’t need them.” He sighs.  
“I’ll leave them anyway.” The officer repeats in a no-nonsense statement dropping a handful of leaflets and starts writing down numbers and names on his pad.  
He glances at the leaflets and laughs dryly “I’m not a junkie.”  
“You’re paranoid; shaking; drawn; no food; living in poverty. The signs are there, you need to get some help or it’ll kill you.” He comments brusquely.  
“I’m not, I’ve done it once. Not that it’s any of your fucking business. Go away.”  
“Watch your language, I’m an officer of the law.”  
“And you have no reason to arrest me, or still be here for that matter. I’m not a fucking charity case. I don’t need you to come in here and tell me my life is a mess, I’m not blind and I’m not that stupid.”  
“I can arrest you for use of illegal drugs.”  
“And the tox report will come back clean! You won’t find anything here either. You’re wasting your time, go save someone who wants to be fucking saved!” his words waver as they rattle through his gritted teeth, his deep blue eyes darkening.  
The officer is silent for a moment, giving him a good hard stare “I believe you’re not a heroin addict. I also believe you’re too young to give up on.” He pauses sitting back casually and somehow still looking rigid “So, why are you in such a mess? I can stay here for as long as you want.”  
“Don’t you have an actual paid job to do?” he half-heartedly glares, picking up his mug and swirling the last few dregs of black liquid.  
“I’ve been off duty for a half hour, you were my last call.”  
“Then maybe you should get back to your family.” He keeps his eyes on the swirling dark vortex.  
“I’m not being expected by anyone.”  
“Don’t you have a family, you’re really that lonely that you’d rather hang out with me?” he asks laughing bitterly, it comes out crueller than intended and the atmosphere suddenly becomes very tense.  
“I’m not here to talk about myself.” He states with a hard stare and a set jaw.  
“Sorry.” His eyes flit up from the mug and back again nervously.  
“I understand, you’re just protecting yourself, but I’m not going to force you into anything. I’ll make you another one of those.” He takes the mug and flicks the kettle on, getting another mug for himself.  
“Make yourself at home, officer, have a coffee.” He doesn’t smiles, he shows no reaction at all.  
“You’re meant to be thinking.”  
“I’m always thinking.”  
“Thinking about your situation and how you can get yourself out of it. With or without my help. I’m working part time, they’re preparing me for retirement. I’ll be volunteering for a friend’s business, Jean, he changed me for the better. Maybe he, we, can help you.” He says seriously stirring the liquid.  
“Sounds dramatic. There’s tea bags and lemon if you’re not a coffee man.”  
“Coffee’s fine. I was lost, I was full of hate. My favourite part of my job was finding a reason to intimidate people or throw a person behind bars so I could feel powerful. I didn’t care if I was helping or if I was ruining someone’s life. So many heroin addicts I criminalised, I could have directed them towards help and turned a blind eye, most weren’t hurting anyone.” He sighs, retaking his seat.  
“That was so deep, I almost drowned.” R deadpans, though he’s actually starting to like this strange old geezer, his cross eyebrows and his hidden layers “What did you say your name was?”  
“Officer Javert. Hugo Javert. You still haven’t told me yours.”  
“R.”  
“R?” he raises an eyebrow.  
“R, ‘aire, Grantaire.”  
“R it is then.” He sips his coffee as his mouth does the twitchy thing again.  
“I think I’ll call you Huggy.”   
He grins when the man splutters and coughs frowning dubiously.  
“Can I talk you out of that particular nickname?”  
“You just look like you’d be nice to hug, but I guess as you asked nicely, I can settle for Hugo.” He jokes with only a slight edge of bitterness.  
“You’re lonely, where are your family and friends?”  
He ignores the question, though that probably just makes it more obvious that right now Hugo is the only person who cares, even if it’s out of pity.  
“You need some food.” Hugo abandons attempts of deep conversation and addresses the immediate issues.  
“I’ll get some later.” He gulps at his coffee though it’s still hot enough to scold his tongue a little.  
“You need dinner. Have you eaten today?”  
“I’ll get some later.” He repeats snappily.  
“Everywhere around here is closed this time on a Sunday, I can drive you to a garage or order out?”  
“Sunday?!” he startles, sloshing coffee onto his jeans and the floor.  
“Yes, today is Sunday.” Hugo confirms his heavy brows knotting.  
“What’s the time?!” he leaps to his feet, looking at his clothes he runs to the bedroom and then sees the wardrobe lying face down on the floor “Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!” he fists at his hair, all the panic from earlier rushing back.  
“Okay. Calm down.” Firm hands grip his shoulders and force him back into his seat on the sofa “Explain.”  
“Enjolras, Enjolras is coming on Sunday, today. Eight o’clock. What’s the time? I’m not ready, what’s the time?!” He pleads biting at his short jagged nails, every fingertip coated in paint or charcoal.  
“It’s seven forty four. I need you to calm down and tell me what’s going on. Who is Enjolras, do you owe him money?” he asks calmly.  
“No, no, he’s, well he’s perfect, he’s my, not my friend, I’m not good enough to be his friend, but they’re helping, the group want to help me to stop drinking and I do their posters and pamphlets, he’s my, my Enjolras.”  
“You’re an alcoholic?”  
“No.” he shakes his head, rocking agitatedly “What’s the time?”  
“Alcohol dependent? It’s seven forty five.”  
“No! I just, I’m just, I don’t want to be sober, okay?! I just need people, I just want to be around him because, I don’t know, he’s just so good, I need him, to be around him because he-he-“  
“He gives you hope?”  
“Yeah… I know he doesn’t care about me, but he just cares so fucking much about people. He’s wonderful.. and he’s going to be so disgusted when he sees this.” He gestures to himself and the messy; cold; cluttered flat with its worn furniture and lack of surfaces.  
“Go and get washed up best you can and I’ll tidy. How does that sound?”  
“Why are you helping me?” he asks a tremble in his voice as he hears his outpour replay in his head, god he sounds pathetic.  
“Because I care. Seven forty seven, go on.”  
He rushes to the bathroom without objection, he has no other clothes but he can at least wash, he scrubs frantically at his pasty skin, shaves the stubble from his face, wipes the dried blood from his arm and bandages it before applying ample amounts of deodorant and cologne to mask the mustiness of his four day old clothing.  
He tries to comb his hair but it just seems to get more tangled and glossier with grease, so he sprays it with dry shampoo and pulls on a dark beanie.  
“I’ve done what I can. This is a lovely painting, why is it covered?”  
He looks over to where Hugo is stood in front of his easel and sees to his horror that the sheet over the gigantic Apollo, Enjolras inspired painting for his coursework has fallen.  
“It’s not finished!” he gushes throwing the paint splattered sheet over the top.  
“Well it’s very good. You’ve got quite a gift.”  
“Don’t.” he snaps, he can take pity help once in a while, but not false flattery or undeserved compliments.  
Hugo opens his mouth but is interrupted by a rapping at the door “Do you want me to stay or-“  
The door opens suddenly “Grantaire?” demands Enjolras’ strong yet feminine voice.  
“Uh, yeah, come in.” He blushes.  
“Who are you?” Enjolras eyes the officer suspiciously, he quickly takes a step closer to R and whispers “Are you in trouble?”  
It takes him far too long to understand Enjolras’ worried words, all he can think about is the hotness of lemon scented breath and the waft of strawberry and watermelon shampoo.  
“I’m Officer Hugo Javert.” He introduces himself offering a hand to shake.  
“I study law. What’s your business here?” he demands stonily, disregarding the gesture in favour of giving the un-uniformed officer a wrathful glower as he puts himself between the two men.  
“It’s okay Apollo, he’s a, he’s here to help.” Grantaire says coming back to his senses.  
“I’ll give you some space, I’ll be about twenty minutes. My numbers on the table if you need me.” He nobs, glancing at the covered painting and back to make eye contact with R again, R averts his eyes.  
Hugo nods at Enjolras “If you’re not here when I return it was nice to meet you. It’s good to know R has people looking out for him.”  
Enjolras narrows his eyes but softens a little “Nice to meet you, I think.” he replies as politely as he can then hesitantly offers his own hand as a peace offering.  
Hugo takes the hand without any reluctance, with another curt nod he’s gone.


End file.
